Mullis: Calling the home sweet home line

She wasn't being rude. The number that represented her home sweet home was no longer a functioning number. The family got rid of it. Instead, they use their cellphones.

This isn't a new thing. Most people I know don't have a home phone number anymore. Some of my younger siblings haven't had a “home number” since they lived in my parents' home.

My friend shared that few calls come to her house anymore. Most of the urgent, or at least mildly interesting, calls go straight to the intended individuals, usually in the form of a text or a tweet or a post. When the home phone did ring, it was either a telemarketer offering a great deal, a pollster requesting an opinion, or a robot reminding them of an upcoming dental appointment.

No one wanted to take those calls, which was why the voice mailbox was perpetually full and the handsets were often missing.

Her last comment made me chuckle, as she had called me on my home phone number and I had to run around the house for four rings saying, “WHERE IS THE PHONE? ANYONE?”

And when I found a handset, the message indicator was blinking like a strobe light. Everything she said was applicable to my home line, but I'm not ready to give it up.

Maybe it's sentimentality, but I like knowing I can call home.

Not a person, but a place.

We don't call places much anymore. My husband used to have a work number, which rang the phone on his desk. When he answered, I could picture him there, typing at the computer, flipping through a file, trying to eat lunch. It was comforting.

Now his work phone is his cellphone. When he answers, he could be anywhere.

Recently, my college daughter's cellphone wouldn't turn on, even when plugged into the wall. She called from her dorm room on her roommate's cellphone, asking me for help. Her cellphone provider didn’t have a store within 60 miles of campus. Worse, she didn't know anyone's phone number by heart, except home.

I wanted to lecture her on memorizing important numbers, but who was I kidding? Cellphones have replaced phone numbers with names. It’s easy to remember a name, but it takes repetition to associate a name with a number. Besides, people's cellphone numbers change on a whim.

Maybe that's why home numbers stick with us. They represent a place and you don't change a place's phone number unless moving trucks are involved. Even then, we remember. I can still rattle off the phone number of my childhood home, a place my family hasn't lived since I was 14.

The best part of calling a home phone is anyone in the family could answer. When you call a cellphone, only one person answers. Efficient, but dull.

And, if that cellphone isn't working, you can't even talk to that person, as was the case when I had the information my daughter needed. I couldn't call her, despite knowing exactly where she was – in her boxy dorm room on the fourth floor.

A piece of land with no line.

So, I waited for her to call the only number she knew by heart – the home sweet home line.

Nicole L.V. Mullis’ work will be part of Theatre Kalamazoo’s New Play Festival on February 3-4. For details visit Facebook or www.NicoleLVMullis.com.